Making God Laugh
by MySunnyDisposition
Summary: In 2009, Ponyboy has not stayed gold, Darry has to right a wrong, Angela makes an adjustment, Two-bit needs to be strong as he deals with the unimaginable, and Steve learns how to be happy. Everything is wrong, and nothing goes according to plan, leading to an unforeseen and mostly bleak future. Full of OCs and connected adventures.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.  
**

* * *

 _~ If you want to make God laugh, tell Him about your plans. ~ Woody Allen_

* * *

 _In 1974, a man is found with his face blown off by a shotgun wielded by a store owner who was trying to avoid being robbed by the man. The man is completely unrecognizable, but his dog tags list him as Sodapop Curtis. The store owner shakes his head sadly, because those Vietnam boys sure are coming home with a thousand screws loose._

 _In the meantime, Sodapop's family and friends have been searching for him for years since he failed to come home after being discharged. They're devastated to learn he's not only dead, but he has tarnished their memory of him. They never would have figured he'd snap like that, but shortly after, all of them snap in their own ways._

* * *

Life goes on, time passes, and before people know it, the year is 2009. Everyone forgets Sodapop Curtis or pretends to. It might sound callous, and maybe it is, but that's the way the world works.

Anyway, 2009 is hectic, especially in the United States. The Great Recession has just hit a year prior, causing everyone to panic, and it brings to light a good many wrongs committed by those in the financial sector. The downside is, of course, that no one else knows how to fix the problems other than the ones who made the mess in the first place. There's no justice to be had, and trust is fractured everywhere.

Emma Brackenridge's trust has been nonexistent since long before the whole recession mess. Her mistrust is rooted in problems closer to home, and it leaves her screwed up.

First her mother leaves her, so she lives with her father.

Only, her father ignores her, if she's lucky.

So, she tries to connect with her much older half siblings, but they hate her.

Finally, she tries to make friends, but she's not pretty, smart, athletic, or cool, and thus remains a social outcast.

She's alone in the world, leading her to contemplate suicide by age ten. She tells her half-sister, Meg, the daughter from her father's third wife, about her suicidal thoughts, but Meg is not sympathetic.

"Just don't make a mess," Meg says coldly. "Blood's hard to wash out."

Emma doesn't bring it up again, but the thoughts don't leave. On her twelfth birthday, she comes close to overdosing on her father's sleeping pills. In the end, she chickens out, feeling very much like a coward, but she can't deny the cold relief that comes with her decision to live.

"One more day," she starts to say every night. "I'm gonna try for one more day, and maybe it'll be good."

One more day of being harassed by that popular jerk at school.

One more day of waiting for her mother to call.

One more day of having Meg call her a bastard because Emma's mother is the only one their father didn't marry.

One more day of Emma's dad telling her once again that he should get another paternity test done just to make sure she's his, because he can't believe someone so stupid shares his DNA.

"You're even dumber than your mother," he's fond of saying, "and not even half as pretty."

This goes on for two years, and it all leads to one more day of living and failing.

* * *

Elsewhere in 2009, in Tulsa to be exact, Mrs. Gage is a widowed teacher in her fifties. She's not one of those who absolutely loves the kids she teaches. She actually doesn't like most kids, but every now and then, one or two will just steal her heart away as much as her own children did when they were born. She lives for those kids.

They're not always the gifted kids either. A lot of times they're the slow learners, the ones everyone calls dumb. She knows them in ways she could spend all day trying to explain. The simplest way to put it is, she was those kids once.

That's not to say she doesn't appreciate the gifted ones, those who just want a bit of guidance from an unbiased, non-judgmental third party. She just knows they end up okay nine times out of ten. They don't need her as much.

No, the so-called stupid kids are the ones she focuses on. For instance, there's one boy in her class named Brandon who has such insight about the books they talk about. The poor boy just can't read, not well at least.

"Ms. Shepard?" the stuffy man behind the desk addresses her.

"It's Mrs. Gage," she corrects him, gracefully hiding her annoyance. "I haven't been a Shepard in a long time."

He fights back a scowl with only partial success. "Did you hear all I said?"

"Yes, of course. My home fulfills my brother's parole requirements, but there'll be random checkups, especially over the course of the next few months, just to make sure he's not returning to his old habits."

Mr. Stuffy doesn't look pleased she was able to repeat back what he said almost verbatim. Too bad. She's been a master of memorizing while only giving a person half her attention since she was ten.

"Well, I'm glad you understand. Hopefully this goes well, but we usually hold stricter policies for compassionate release for a reason, and your brother is..." he leaves the sentence hanging.

Angela smiles. "Yes, he's a criminal no one would generally lift a finger to help, but I created such a fuss the system finally released him just to stop dealing with me. Honestly, he's got stage four lung cancer, what damage do you expect him to do?"

"You'd be surprised," Mr. Stuffy grunts, thoroughly annoyed with the woman in front of him. She's nothing but trash, but she trapped a big fish when she was younger, and now she thinks she's hot shit. Well, he still hears stories about her, and she should get off her damn high horse.

"I'm sure I wouldn't actually," she says dryly.

"Whatever you say, _Ms._ _Shepard_."

"Bless your heart," she says, flashing him her prettiest smile. She's imagining ripping his face off.

Stuffy gets all in a huff and tells her Tim's release paperwork will be complete within the week.

Angela sighs and wonders just what shit storm she's inviting into her life. Tim's been incarcerated since before she got married the second time, for reasons she's still shaky on, and now he's dying. There's gonna be an adjustment period for sure, and she hopes they can both handle it.

* * *

Also in Tulsa, a man is in bed, wondering how he ended up next to a beautiful woman. It's not that he doesn't remember the previous night. On the contrary, he remembers it with absolute clarity. He just doesn't know how he continually gets lucky with a woman who's twenty years younger than him.

The woman's name is Anita, and she stirs, opening her eyes and smiling at him. "Morning."

They've been doing this for two years, and he's still not entirely used to waking up with her. "Morning."

"What time is it?" Anita asks, stretching leisurely.

He shrugs. "Maybe 'bout nine?"

"Well at least I don't work today," she says. "Guess we should still get up, though."

He's been thinking the same thing for the past thirty minutes, but suddenly the idea of getting up is offensive. "Or we could just stay here for a bit."

"Sure," Anita says, not making a big deal out of it, out of them.

She's so easy going, if he didn't know any better, he'd say she never makes a big deal about anything. He never would've thought he'd be the one in a relationship who's always overthinking and wondering what they are, but maybe it's being sixty and unmarried with no kids or any other family to speak of that's making him so damn eager to hold onto this, whatever the hell this is.

 _It's a relationship, dumbass,_ says a voice in his head.

Who'd of thought he'd ever have a relationship lasting for more than a few months? Longest girlfriend he ever had was Evie, and she didn't even last a year, not that he blames her. He doesn't blame any of his past girlfriends.

He's not an easy person to get along with. Most days he's an asshole, something that's not improved with age, and he has a reputation for being a surly old man. Then some do-gooder doctor moves in next door and starts worming her way into his life for reasons no one can begin to guess at.

It confuses him to the point where he asks her outright one day why she bothers with him, why she likes screwing him, why she brightens his day like it's her mission on earth.

She just grins. "I like you, idiot."

"But why?" he presses, needing a reason, feeling vulnerable and hating it.

She loses the smile and gets serious. "You're honest, kind in your own way, and you don't play games. Do you know how hard it is to find someone like that?"

He's old, and he'll probably die before she can break his heart, so he lets himself go. He's an asshole, but she likes him, and he can live with that.

That's why he just stays in bed that morning. There's no rush, no pressure, and it makes him smile, pull her to him, and bury his face in her hair, enjoying the lazy morning. He never thought it'd happen, but sixty years after birth, Steve Randle is finally happy.

* * *

In contrast to Steve's happiness, Darrel Curtis is sad. He's been sad for about three years now after watching his wife die. Cancer is a bitch.

He's just so grateful for his kids. They keep him going, urging him to hang in there, because they don't want to bury another parent. Because they want their children to know who he is from more than just pictures.

Darry's still strong, and he still holds to the logic of not letting the world end just because you lose someone, but it's hard. It's damn hard.

"Maybe you should go out," says his oldest son, Travis, after their weekly Sunday dinner.

Darrel shrugs. "Where to?"

It's a relevant question. Darrel doesn't have many places to be these days, having retired early so he could spend more time with his wife though her sickness.

"Golfing?" Travis suggests with a mischievous grin.

Darrel snorts. Despite his natural athletic abilities, he's an awful golfer. He's been kicked out of two golf courses already for losing his temper and breaking his clubs, disturbing the so-called peace the course offers to its other members.

"Yeah, maybe not," Travis says, shaking his head fondly at his father.

"He does have a high school reunion coming up," says Marie, his son's pregnant wife who is currently washing Darry's dishes, despite his earlier protests about her not needing to worry about the mess in the sink.

The golf course might be preferable. Darrel hasn't been to any of his reunions, not having anything to say to those fakes and phonies and everyone he thought was his friend. He's finished with them just as much as they're finished with him.

"It could be nice," Marie claims.

"How?" grunts Darrel.

"Finishing unfinished business."

"Like what?"

Marie smirks. "Like letting everyone know you turned out okay without them, letting them know you didn't need them and never did."

Perhaps Marie's only flaw is how vindictive she can be, but it stems from how protective she is over family. She's always quick to defend them, whether it's her family by blood, marriage, or the strong bonds of friendship. Once she'd heard about Darry's struggles when he was younger, taking care of his brothers and such, she's always thought very little of anyone who 'just lost touch' with him along the way.

"I don't need to prove anything," Darrel says, reproach in his tone, even though the idea is tempting. "That's not why I worked so hard."

Travis shrugs. "Maybe not, but it's one hell of a perk, no?"

Darry smiles. "Maybe. I'll think about it."

Marie nods, her job done. "Just ask Leni to help you pick out what to wear."

"I can dress myself, thanks," Darry says, but he'll call Leni over anyway just to have an excuse to see her.

Helen, affectionately known as Leni, is his princess. As a single mother, she's always busy, but she never fails to come over when he needs her.

It's his youngest boy that's flakey, but not much can be done there. It's Hank's nature to be forgetful, and Darry pauses a minute, thinking of another boy who used to be the same way.

Then Darry sighs and tries not to remember anymore. Ponyboy might still breathe out there in California, but he died with Soda. Darry needs to accept that and move on. The world doesn't end just because you lose someone.

 **So this is a wacky idea that came to me. I was originally gonna wait on posting this until I had more of it done, but I haven't written much in months, and I wanted to do something. If this first chapter is confusing, I apologize, and I hope things become clearer as the story goes on. Hope y'all enjoy!**


	2. Chapter 2

_One thing that needs to be understood about Sodapop is, he changes into a different person. Most people do in the course of their lives, at least to some extent, but for most people it's hard to pinpoint when exactly they change. Not so for Sodapop Curtis._

 _Sodapop becomes an entirely different person in 1969, when he gets the shit kicked out of him._ _It's not his fault. He's a good fighter really, but he's outnumbered, and eventually he goes down._

* * *

Emma really is such a failure. She skips school three days in a row, and nobody is home to answer the school's phone calls about her absences. She does her best to get her grades up, no one notices. Truth be told, a lot of her teachers forget she's in their classes, practically forget she exists.

All in all, Emma is left in a black hole. The only upside is the freedom that comes with it, although sometimes she wonders if the 'freedom' is just a special kind of prison. She uses the freedom or prison or unsupervised time, whatever name she feels like calling it, by snooping around her dad's stuff.

See, there's a room, an unused home-office, no one's supposed to go into. Even Meg, arguably the most rebellious of them, won't break this rule. Just the thought of anyone entering the place causes her father's face to turn purple with rage.

Even so, Emma can't help herself. She wants to know him, and the room contains the secrets of his past. It's there she finds out who he was before he had Emma and became so miserable.

Meg says their dad's always been an ornery bastard but claims it's only gotten worse since Emma came along. Then again, Connor, one of the twins from wife number two, claims the same thing about Meg. But Emma doesn't doubt that she herself is the cause of the everything wrong, because she's stupid and pathetic and ugly. Who else could be at fault?

In any case, she learns about her dad through old photos, letters, and writings he's stashed away in a room not even he enters anymore.

Thanks to the room, Emma also discovers she has uncles, a whole different family she's never met before, but only one of them kept in contact past the sixties. His name is Darrel, and he used to send Christmas cards every year until 1995, which is when Emma was born, solidifying her theory that she is indeed to blame for her father's lack of happiness.

The other uncle has a funny name, but there's not as many mentions about him. Emma gets why after she finds his obituary.

She always tries to leave the room the way she finds it, but today she comes across a lengthy document that looks like an essay of sorts. One brief skim tells Emma it's some kind of story, and she regrets that she won't be able to finish it before her dad gets home. She's a slow reader on her best days, so she takes it to her room, planning to start it when everyone goes to bed.

While she waits for nightfall, Emma imagines what life would be like if she'd grown up around her extended family. Would they always be having family dinners like the ones on TV? She has cousins, and maybe they'd be nice and talk _to_ her instead of _at_ her. Maybe they'd help her with school and tell her not to worry about not having friends, because who needs them, right?

Eventually, Emma always comes back to reality, trying not to miss a future that will never be and a past that never was. It's pointless, just wishful thinking, and it gives her dangerous ideas she'll never follow through on.

"Dad got ice-cream, loser" Meg says, having barged into Emma's room without knocking. Again.

Emma can't wait until Meg moves out, but the older girl needs to graduate college first. It's the deal all the siblings have with their father. He agrees to provide for all their needs and most of their wants until they're done with college. After that, he's done with them, which is dandy, because they're done with him too.

"And don't come back until I die," he constantly saying. "Have fun fighting over who gets my money."

Emma sighs, trudging after Meg with reluctant feet. Dad is trying to be nice today, and it's gonna end badly, probably for Emma. She knows she's easier to pick on.

Emma's heart sinks at the sight of the desserts. Her dad has gotten some kind of mini-sundaes for them. Soft serve ice cream, chocolate syrup, and peanuts on top.

"I can't have that," Emma says nervously, wondering how to best explain herself.

Her dad loses the strained smile he's been sporting. "Why 'cause it's from McDonald's?"

"N-no!" Emma stammers. "I'm just–"

He cuts her off, saying, "I swear, every time I try to do something thoughtful, it blows up in my face."

Meg smirks, taking a bite of her own ice cream and leaning back in her chair, settling in to watch the show. "Yeah, Emma, what's your problem?"

"You're just like your mother, you know that?" her dad says, disgusted. "Nothing was ever good enough for her either."

Mercifully, her dad storms upstairs, and the ranting stops there, but Meg is still present. She's just as bad.

"There's another family moment ruined. Took ten seconds at most. I'm impressed."

"I didn't mean to," Emma whispers, trying not to cry.

"Should've just told him you're allergic to peanuts."

"I-I tried!" Emma claims weakly, and she did try. She just couldn't get the words out. She always freezes up when he yells at her.

Meg shrugs. "Eh, probably woudn't have made a difference. Better he thinks you're picky than defective."

Emma flinches, the tears starting to fall. "Why're you so mean?"

Meg shrugs again. "It's fun. Now, go cry in your room. I can't enjoy my ice cream when I look at you."

Emma rushes upstairs and throws herself on her bed. She's a step away from falling apart yet again when her foot kicks something off the bed. Startled, Emma wipes at her eyes and picks it up. It's the essay she brought to her room, and her curiosity returns, tempering her misery. At least everyone's bad moods will keep them occupied for a time, meaning Emma is free to read this essay without being interrupted. She flips the cover page and starts, letting the story take her mind far away from her family's tense household.

The first line reads, "When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home."

* * *

Elsewhere, a woman named Holly is trying not to cry as her husband and grandson load up the moving truck. The process of moving has made the past few weeks blur together, but now things are winding down, and it's all much more final. Her son is dead.

It's not supposed to work this way. Maybe it's cliché to think it, but it's true. Sons and daughters should bury their parents, not the other way around.

"Car crashes," her husband mutters, shaking his head as they take one last look at their son's former home.

"What's that?"

"Car crashes," he repeats. "I swear there's not a more mundane way to kick the bucket."

Holly gapes at him. "Is that seriously all you can say, Keith?"

He scowls at her. "There's plenty more to say. For instance, car crashes are a dime a dozen. Can't throw a rock and not hit someone who knows someone else who died in one. Maybe people just shouldn't be allowed to drive anymore. Let's just have automated trains and shit."

"Keith!" she snaps. "You just shut up. Dylan doesn't need to hear this, especially not from you."

"Dylan is blocking out the world with those headphones of his," Keith says dismissively, but his ire deflates at the mention of their grandson. "But you're right. I should shut up. I just…"

"I know," Holly says, placing a comforting hand on his arm. "Me too."

Devastated doesn't do it justice, but if they had to pick a word to describe them, devastated would be it. They're devastated, and the only thing holding them together is the fact that their grandson is now in their sole care. Their daughter-in-law was an orphan, and their son was their only child. They're all Dylan has now. Devastation isn't allowed.

"Where're we going to go, Keith?" Holly asks. "We can't raise Dylan on the road."

She and Keith haven't lived in a house for a few years now. Until recent events transpired, they'd been RVing their way across the nation, dropping in on their son and his family when they were in the same state, finding adventure after adventure. But Dylan doesn't need an adventure right now. He needs stability.

Keith sighs. "I was thinking Tulsa."

Holly looks at him in surprise. "We never go to Tulsa."

They haven't been back to Tulsa since the day they left. Even in all their travels, Tulsa has always been understood as off limits.

"Well, it's fitting enough. Tulsa's always been the home of my worst memories. It'll be a new start for Dylan and a familiar setting for us."

Holly doesn't think it's a good idea, but she trusts her husband. Tulsa it is.

* * *

In Tulsa, Steve leans against the bathroom doorway, watching Anita put on her makeup. She's frowning at the mirror, sighing as she sees imaginary flaws. She's gotten better, but she still has residual self-esteem issues left over from her ex. It makes her sad and a little vain. Steve hates seeing her sad, and finds vanity ridiculous in general.

"You don't need that shit," he says, hoping to provoke an eye roll out of her.

She doesn't disappoint, eyes lifting up to the ceiling, exasperated as she says, "Yes, I do. Just about every woman my age does."

"Stop talking like you're old."

"I'm getting there," she says mournfully.

That makes him snort, because she doesn't know what old is. Sure, she's getting a few lines on her face, especially at the corners of her eyes, but forty isn't old at all. She even looks younger than her age most days, but try telling her that.

"Your body ain't old," he says with a smirk, and it's true. Maybe it's all that jogging she does, or the routine of weird stretches she subjects herself to, but she is fit as a fiddle.

This draws a laugh out of her. "Well, at least I have that going for me."

He smiles, happy to have cheered her up some. It's the least he can do to repay her for how much she's changed his life. He's gone from being miserable to feeling lighter than he has in years, and he loves her for it.

Huh. He loves her. Imagine that.

* * *

It's weird for Tim, being in Angela's house. It's a nice place, and Tim's never lived anywhere nice before. The unfamiliar and upscale setting makes him nervous, as though someone is gonna come through the door and arrest him for trespassing.

"It's kinda messy," Angel says. "Didn't realize. Let me clean up a bit."

It's not messy at all. Maybe there's an excess of magazines and papers spread on the table, but it's nothing like the mess of their old house. Regardless, Angela starts gathering up some of the clutter and putting it in stacks on end tables and shelves.

Yep, definitely weird. Then Tim notices all the photos and finds those weird too. Who the hell is happy in that many pictures? Why even take so many pictures in the first place? Life isn't really that noteworthy.

"So, he was okay?" Tim asks gruffly.

Angel looks up from her tidying. "Was who okay?"

Tim points to a framed photo on the counter. "Your husband."

"Oh, Billy? Yeah, he was great." Angela smiles wistfully before going back to her task. "I wish you could've met him. I was scared to death when I had to tell him I was pregnant, sure I was gonna have the door slammed in my face, but he proposed to me instead."

"And his family was okay with that?" Tim asks, although they must've been, because it seems Billy's parents are part of the photo collection too.

"Yeah," Angel confirms, laughing. "I thought they'd throw us out when Billy told them, but they just offered their congratulations and asked if I wanted help planning the wedding. Biggest shock of my life, and I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming."

Tim nods, taking it all in. Angela wrote some when he was inside, but she held back a lot of the details in her letters.

"You done good, Angela," he tells her. "Wish I'd met Billy too."

It's a lie. In all honesty, Billy sounds like a dopey sap, but he did alright by Angela, so Tim can respect him. No one he knows ever made Angel smile much, not the way she's smiling in the pictures.

Tim hopes he doesn't ruin it all for her. Probably the best thing that ever happened for her was him getting locked away, and now he's out, and he only hopes he dies before he can undo all the good Angela's made for herself.

* * *

"Sorry I missed dinner again," Hank says. "I just lost track of time."

Darry's heard the excuse before, but he only shrugs. "I get it. You're working on a PhD, Hank. It's gonna take up your time."

Hank is both relieved and ashamed at how understanding his father is being. He's been missing their Sunday family dinners a lot, and it's only partly to do with his studies. More than his academic goals, his fear is keeping him from going inside his parents' house.

He doesn't know if he can take seeing his mother's chair empty. Will he be able to stand Marie and Travis cooking without their 'head chef'? Will it hurt too much to hear Leni talk sports with their dad and not hear Mom wonder aloud how she ended up with such a tomboy? Will he be able to handle seeing little Heather without Mom doting on her only grandchild?

"Only grandchild so far," Mom used to say with a smirk. "Don't think the rest of you are off the hook. I expect a whole brood of them to the point where we struggle to remember their names."

Even more than all of that, his mother was the only person who made an effort to learn about physics, his chosen field of study. She did so in order to know what he'd get excited about all the time. No one else did, and he doesn't wanna sit with them only to learn that he has no place in the family anymore, nothing to contribute, not even enjoyable conversation.

Case in point, Hank and his dad have been sitting on the porch for fifteen minutes after Hank's apology, and neither of them have said a word. Change sucks.

 **So, I know it's normally "out of character" for Pony to be so mean and awful, but bear with me. The back story I have for him will help this make sense as I reveal it, because there's more to his pain than losing Soda.**

 **Anyway, hope y'all enjoy, and Happy Easter!**


	3. Chapter 3

_A little before Soda gets beat half to death in 1969,_ _he's tired from being on a bus for the past couple of hours, and like most of the other passengers, he's irritated the damn thing has broken down._

 _For a short moment, he regrets not letting Darry pick him up, but he knows it's better this way. He's feeling tangled up inside, like he's not all there, and even the delay from the bus is beneficial, granting him the extra moments alone he needs to sort out his mind. It's like he told Darry on the phone, he needs to find his own way home._

* * *

Ponyboy Curtis goes by Michael or Mike now. It's more professional, and besides the professionalism, it also hurts less to say. If he still went by Ponyboy, he'd have to explain, "Yes, that's my real name," and leave out the part where he claims, "I've even got a brother named Sodapop," because he doesn't have a brother named Sodapop anymore. His brother is dead, the asshole.

The thought still hurts. Soda is dead, and he died a disgrace.

Dealing with the pain of that fact leaves little room for anything else in Mike's life. He has his job, and that's about it. After three wives and a weak-willed ex-girlfriend, romance is out of the question, he can't stand his kids, and all traces friendship are gone. To top it all off, he and Darry never talk anymore, because they only end up fighting when they do, and both of them are better off without the drama.

So, Michael Curtis dives into his work, which he hates, but at least he' good at it. Mike's an accountant for an accounting firm. It's not his dream job, but his dream to be an author was crushed with every rejection letter from every publisher he sent his written works to. Accounting was a practical backup plan, and a lucrative one to boot.

Michael rises fast within the company, and it pays for all the alimony, child-support, college tuitions, and mortgages he's found himself stuck with. At least he's learned after his first wife, the first mistake, to always have them sign a prenup. It cuts down on the costs in the long run, because divorce is inevitable for all but a special few.

He wonders if people hating their own children is inevitable too, because it sure feels that way to him. His kids are always whining about him not being there for them. Ha! He's there more than their mothers. He provides for them more than their mothers, at least, and he never beats them. Connor and Courtney know firsthand how fortunate they are in that area, and yet still they complain. At least those two are out of the house already.

"You okay?" asks Hector, one of Mike's coworkers.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Mike asks, his tone clipped. Hector is not someone he wants to deal with today.

"You look pissed."

Mike scowls. "That's because your ice cream idea backfired."

Hector is nervous, and Mike doesn't blame him. He knows he can be cruel, and he can't abide stupid people, which to Mike means anyone who fails even once. Hector and Mike don't like each other much, and Mike wonders again why Hector continues to give him unwelcome advice, why Mike's misery concerns him so, because while they work well together, they're nowhere close to being friends.

Hector sighs. "Sorry to hear that. Can I ask why?"

"My kids are ungrateful scavengers."

Hector laughs, trying to make light of the situation. "They're supposed to be, right? Think it's in the rulebook. Our job to love them anyway, though, right?"

Hector is always happy, always accepting, and more often than not, he makes sense. It grates on Mike's nerves. "If you say so."

His coworker's grin falters. "Well, maybe you should try again. Just with simple things, non-edible things, because Lord knows kids are picky eaters. How about taking them to the movies or something?"

Movies? Right, because all can be solved with fictitious wastes of time. Still, maybe it'd get them to shut up, especially the youngest one.

Actually, Emma doesn't say much to him. Not much to say, he supposes, but she looks at him with expectant eyes, and he wants to slap her. He's only ever hit one of his kids, but it was for a good reason, and Meg has always been so antagonistic. Emma, though? He'd hit her all day if she'd just stop looking at him like she's begging him to love her.

There's no love left in him, and the sooner she learns that, the better. Emma needs to stand on her own. Maybe her brothers and sisters are shitty people, but they know how to survive and get by in the world. They know to claw their way to the top and fight for what they want. In contrast, Emma is always looking for permission, for approval, and worst of all, for affection. But the world is not affectionate, and after many harsh lessons, neither is Michael.

Of course, if Michael was to be honest with himself, he'd admit that his minuscule efforts to be nice are not just to get his kid off his back. It's because a few weeks ago he has a cancer scare. It's a false alarm, nothing to worry about, but he worries anyway. He's unsettled for days, even after his additional tests clear him of any illness, because he's suddenly forced to imagine what things will look like on his death bed.

Joe won't even come to his funeral, the twins won't show until he dies, Meg will no doubt be there to taunt him, and only Emma will give a damn.

He can picture his youngest there at his side, trying to help, her eyes still hopeful. His mind flashes to Johnny Cade for the first time in years, and he knows his childhood friend would be ashamed of him. This fact drops a spatter of red onto Michael's black heart, leaving a faint sting Michael can't ignore, one that urges him to do something about the mess he's made.

Michael decides the movies sound like a good idea. He'll take Emma tomorrow, and maybe Meg too if she's willing and isn't being too snarky.

* * *

"Where's your sister?" Meg's father asks her on a sunny Saturday morning.

Meg shrugs, completely unconcerned. "Dunno. I've been busy."

Her dad leans against her doorway. "Okay, but when's the last time you saw her?"

Meg doesn't even look up from her computer screen, absently thinking about which passage to cite from her textbook for her paper. "When you chewed her out for the ice cream fiasco."

"When was that?"

"Uh, two days ago, maybe?" Meg finally tears her concentration away from her paper. "Why, is she not in her room?"

"No, she's not." Her dad scowls. "The school just called too, and she hasn't been there in a week."

"Huh, weird."

Her dad nods. "Yeah, apparently she has a habit of skipping. They've been trying to reach me about it for a while now."

Meg snorts. "Slow as she learns, you'd think she'd wanna skip as little as possible."

He chuckles darkly. "No kidding. She doesn't have a lick of sense, does she?"

Part of Meg feels guilty for ragging on Emma so heavily. After all, Meg knows what it's like to be the youngest, the newest target of 'you ruined my life' from her dad and his other children. Still, Meg has paid her dues, and Emma will too, and Emma will do so with the same amount of sympathy Meg was granted. Absolutely none.

It's hard, though, when Emma has those moments of wanting to talk and be sisters for real. Like, when Emma confessed to wanting to kill herself, Meg knew from experience it was no idle threat. So while she was cruel in her response, for the next six months, Meg kept track of all sharp objects in the house, all prescription medications, and she made sure the kid was breathing before she goes to bed.

Even now, when the imminent danger seems to be over, Meg does occasional spot checks.

Dad has a negative view of anyone who opts out or tries to. Meg learned that when she was sixteen and crashed her car into a tree. She survived and tried to claim it was an accident, but he saw through the lie. It's the only time he's ever hit her. Probably the only time he's hit any of them.

So yeah, Meg looks out for the brat, at least regarding her physical well-being. It's the one kindness she's allowed herself to give her little half-sister. She'll keep her breathing, but for the rest, Emma is on her own. Self-reliance will toughen her up anyway.

"Nope, no sense at all," Meg agrees, desperately ignoring the guilt settling in.

* * *

Elizabeth 'Beth' Warren is proud of herself as her freshman year at Tulsa University comes to a close. Finals are just around the corner, but Beth isn't stressing. She's sure she'll end up with all A's, her roommate is cool, and she's taking a summer class to avoid going home over the break.

She's enjoying being away from home. It's new, exciting, and scary, and she loves it. Of course, she does miss her family, but she needed to leave the nest sometime, and college is as good a time as any to fly away. It's actually the safest time to do so in her opinion, because at least she still has some financial support from home, and since she's going to school, she doesn't feel like a freeloader for it.

All the same, Beth feels inclined to get a job. It's a crappy, minimum wage job at a coffee shop, but it allows some spending money without having to ask her parents for it. Also, the tidbits she's squirreling away will help pay for her books next semester.

Things really are going well for Beth, and she doesn't think anything could bring her down.

* * *

"You wanna move in with me?" Steve asks Anita out of the blue.

He's sitting on his couch, and she's just come back from putting their plates in the sink. It's not very romantic, but Steve figures asking her to move in doesn't require romance. After all, it's not like he's proposing.

"Sure, okay," Anita says, not at all offended by the lack of build up to the question. "Just keep in mind I'm gonna redecorate everything in pink, and you're gonna hate it, and we'll have way too many arguments about it, which is fine since we'll enjoy the make-up sex later, but all that making up will have you dying of a heart attack. The only upside is I can decorate any way I want once you're out of the picture, but then I'll have to find another guy to fool around with, and he probably won't be as convenient as my next-door neighbor."

Steve just waits until she's done being silly. "I'm being serious."

"So am I. I like pink, and you find it atrocious."

"Anita," he sighs.

She stops trying to be funny and smiles warmly at him. "Yes, I'll move in with you, and I'll only change the curtains. You've got good taste in everything except curtains."

Steve rolls his eyes, because he couldn't care less about curtains, but then again...

"No pink, Doc, and no flowery shit."

"Deal," Anita agrees, climbing onto his lap. "What about lilac? I think lilac would go with your white trim."

"That's a flower," Steve grumbles, "not a color."

"It's a color, basically light purple, like the shade I'm wearing right now."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "You're wearing yellow."

"Right. Hang on," she says, pulling her dress over her head and tossing it on the floor, revealing a lilac lingerie set. "I meant this shade of purple."

Anita smirks and waits for him to react. She's crazy, but Steve is getting used to her craziness, and it helps when she does something as spontaneous and hot as this. His eyes are dark, and he runs his hands over her smooth skin.

"Purple works."

"Good," she says, leaning in to kiss him before pulling away and adding, "Oh, and just so you know, we're never getting rid of this couch."

"Too much sentimental value," he agrees, and they share wicked grins at the memory of their first time together.

The curtains will go, the couch will stay, and they'll have each other. It's a good deal.

* * *

Angela has things she wants to ask Tim, but it might be too soon. After all, he's not settled in yet. He still stares at her house like he wants to like it but won't let himself on account of it being socy.

"Got something to say, Angel?" Tim says with his eyes still glued to the TV. He lets himself enjoy the TV, because it's a huge flat screen. It's a new toy to him, a better one than his new oxygen tank.

Angela clears her throat. "Where's Curly, Tim?"

Tim pauses the TV. "Somewhere safe."

Angela knows Tim expects her to drop the subject, but she's not sixteen anymore, and his word ain't law. "Give me a real answer, Tim."

"I just did."

"Get more specific," she demands.

Tim stares her down. "He's safe."

Angela wants to snatch away the remote and throw it at him, but she holds back her temper. "Draft dodgers were pardoned years ago. It's okay for me to know where he is."

Tim sighs. "To be honest, I don't really know where he is exactly. I mean, besides what country he's in."

"Canada?" Angel asks, because that was the rumor way back when, and Canada is where she's been sending the occasional private investigator.

Tim shakes his head. "Other direction."

Angela's eyes grow wide. "Mexico? You sent our brother to Mexico?"

"Why not? He speaks Spanish. Anyway, then I let word get around that I sent him to Canada. Like I said, he's safe."

Angela takes a moment to let it sink it. "Why hasn't he come home?"

Tim shrugs. "Probably doesn't want to. Everything was miserable when he left."

"We should try to contact him," Angela says. "He's our brother. He should be here when…"

"When I croak," Tim finishes eloquently. "Leave him be, Angel. If he's found peace, it's not up to us to take it away."

Angela remains silent. She and Tim both know she won't leave it be, but they're both done talking about it. At least she knows where to send the PIs now

* * *

Darrel sighs. He's just sent his RSPV for his reunion, and he left the plus one box empty, making him miss his wife even more. She'd have loved to go with him, although she always respected his decision to avoid reunions at all costs.

"You okay, Dad?" Leni asks.

She's dropped by for a visit, Heather in tow. Heather is looking bored, but she's being politely quiet. Darrel suspects Leni bribed her with the promise of junk food after their visit.

"I'm fine," he answers his daughter.

She doesn't buy it. "Really? So, you're just sighing and looking into the distance because you're fine?"

"I'm fine," Darrel repeats, because he's always fine. He has to be.

Leni shakes her head in frustration but changes the subject. "I was thinking we could barbecue this Sunday, but out at the park, not here."

"Okay, but why?"

"Because Hank might show up if we have a different venue, and then maybe he'll get over himself and start coming around here again."

Darry frowns at her. "Go easy on your brother, Leni."

Leni refrains from the juvenile eyeroll of her youth. "Fine. So, barbecue at our neighborhood park. You'll be there? We need our grill master."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Leni kisses him on the cheek. "Great, and we can throw the football around some, maybe get a game going."

"Football is boring," Heather mutters, done being quiet.

Leni turns to her daughter. "It is not. You just don't know how to play, but grandpa will teach you."

Heather looks up at her grandpa. "You will?"

Darrel nods at the little girl. "If you want."

"He taught me," Leni says proudly.

Darrel's spirits already feel lighter, and he's looking forward to Sunday, much more than he's looking forward to the reunion.

* * *

Michael Curtis waits up all night waiting for his youngest daughter to get home, at first angry his plans were ruined by her absence, all his goodwill toward her dried up with the call from the school. Then the clock reads 2am, the anger ebbs away until he's left with fear. He hasn't waited up like this in ages, but he's overcome with a terror he's forgotten.

He knows he's a crappy parent, but he keeps his kids safe. That's the one thing he can be proud of as a father. He keeps the little shits alive, healthy, and out of danger. The only close call has been Meg's crash, but Emma wouldn't do anything that risky. She's too afraid, so if anything's happened to her… but no, she's probably just pouting at a friend's house.

 _She doesn't have friends,_ whispers a voice in the back of his mind, and he wonders how he knows that. He doesn't exactly keep up with his kids' social lives.

Maybe it's just instinct, because something is definitely wrong. Emma's never not been home at this hour. Ten more seconds go by, and his fingers are grabbing the phone and calling the police before he can stop himself.

 **Gosh, I'm super nervous about this one. There's lot going on, and I hope it's not too choppy. I also know that my new character, Beth, doesn't seem to have a place in the story yet. Rest assured, I have my reasons for adding her, so don't think I have her there for kicks.**


	4. Chapter 4

_Back in 1969, the bus driver tells the passengers not to worry and that it won't be more than a couple of hours before they're on their way again._

 _"Use it as an opportunity to stretch your legs," the driver says. "Just don't wander too far. As soon as we can, we'll be taking off."_

 _Soda groans along with the rest of the passengers and thinks about Darry again, how it's been almost a week since he last spoke with his older brother, a little over a month since he was discharged. Finding his way home is harder than Soda thought it'd be, and_ _ _he's_ been dragging his feet the whole way._

 _But_ _he hasn't been doing anything bad, no drugs, booze, or wild nights. He's just been moving slow, because he doesn't wanna see his family yet, and at the same time, that's all he wants. It's frustrating to not make sense in his own head, but the fact that he's on this Tulsa-bound bus feels like progress, even with this hiccup pushing back his ETA. It was always gonna be a long ride._

 _He stands up and shuffles off the bus._

* * *

"Why are we leaving before Grandma?" Dylan asks.

It's the first time he's spoken since they hit the road, and Keith smiles, happy to hear his voice. He doesn't want the kid to retreat too much, not like Pony did. Kieth winces at the thought of his old pal and hopes Dylan fares better.

"She's selling the RV, trading it in for a practical vehicle, whatever that means."

Kieth wonders how Holly's doing and marvels at how little they've planned out this move. It's all being done last minute, which is concerning, because they don't have a house lined up yet. It's also comforting in that it's familiar territory. He's always been a spur of the moment kind of guy, and Holly's learned to roll with it. Things usually turn out okay.

"Why couldn't you do that?"

"Well, she says it's because it gets her out of the heavy lifting, but I think she just doesn't trust me not to buy a sports car." Keith looks over at him. "Why, you wish she was here instead?"

"Yes," Dylan says bluntly.

That stings, but Keith reminds himself that the kid is just hurting and doesn't mean it. Ponyboy used to say stuff like that all the time, and Darry always took it too personal.

Dylan bites his lip, realizing how that sounded. "Nothing against you, Grandpa. It's just, you look like Dad, what he'd look like if he'd grown older, and-"

Talk about breaking an old man's heart. The boy clenches his jaw and reaches for his earbuds again. Keith puts his hand over his grandson's.

"I get it, kiddo. I really do, but you gotta face looking at me sometime."

"And I will," Dylan says, eyes drifting out the window. "Just not right now, please?"

Keith nods. "Okay, buddy."

He hopes he's making the right call this time.

* * *

The police are gone. They took statements from Mike and Meg, told them to contact family members in case Emma ran away to one of their houses, and left.

 _Did they take her picture?_ Mike wonders.

They did. It was hard to find one, and it wasn't very up to date.

"We just gonna sit here?" Meg asks numbly.

He shrugs. "Not much else to do."

They stare at each other, and it feels like a game of chicken, minus cigarettes or cars or whatever. No, this is a battle of who admits they care first. Meg looks away.

"You still have Lori's number?" Her tone is casual.

"Emma isn't with her mother."

Meg grips the armrest of her chair in an effort to calm herself. Her knuckles are white.

"And how do you know that?"

"Because not even I know where Lori is right now, so Emma wouldn't either."

"Are you sure?"

Mike nods. "Yep."

"You don't think she ran away to LA, maybe to see Connor and Courtney?"

No, he doesn't think that at all. The twins are arguably the meanest of his kids, or maybe it's just always seemed that way because there's two of them, and they're able to gang up on the others.

"What about Joe?" Meg suggests.

"She's still scared of him because of the pool incident."

Pool incident. What a delicate way of remembering the time Emma almost drowned. She spent the rest of the day clinging to Mike of all people. He'll never admit it, but he was clinging to her just as hard until they left the hospital. Bad memories all around when it comes to water.

"Yeah, but he stayed in San Francisco," Meg is saying, "which means he lives the closest."

Mike shakes his head. He has no idea where the kid is, but she doesn't see family as a haven. Emma won't be at Joe's, won't be at the twins', and wouldn't be brave enough to seek out Lori on her own.

His worst fear is that Emma's been kidnapped, but Mike doesn't want to believe that. The possibility is too terrifying, because if it's true, it's on him. She's vulnerable because of him, because he didn't make her strong enough to survive.

"Does she ever talk about school?" Mike asks.

"Not if she can help it."

Yeah, school has never been Emma's strength, and the sad thing is, she actually tries. Somehow, he'd feel better if she was just slacking. Lazy beats stupid.

"Well, I gotta go over there, explain this to them, talk about her absences."

Meg grips her armrest harder. "Oh, okay."

He hesitates. Should he ask her if she wants to come along? He decides against it. He needs to think, and he's always thought better on his own.

"You'll be by the phone in case anyone calls?"

She nods. "I can do that."

He shuffles out of the room, then stops at the door, a random thought coming to him through all the fear. "Peanuts. She's allergic to peanuts."

He doesn't turn around, but he can picture Meg's stony expression as she says, "Yeah, I figured you forgot."

* * *

Leni is furious, and Darry tries to keep her calm. It's not easy. His little girl has always found it difficult to keep her temper in check. She's upset over their barbecue at the park being rained out, which has led to Travis and Marie running late for dinner, and Hank canceling again. Leni's never liked having her plans ruined.

"You can't control the weather," he tells her.

Leni places her hands on the counter and lets her head hang over the sink as she takes a deep breath. "I know, Dad, but I needed _something_ to go right this week."

Darry frowns. "Are you okay?"

She won't look at him. "I will be."

He sighs. "Hey, you can talk to me. All of you can come to me about anything."

Even Hank, if he can be bothered to remember he's part of a family. Darry might not understand half of what goes on in that boy's head, but he would listen to him prattle on about physics or linear algebra or whatever, if he would just come around again.

Leni manages a smile. "I know, but I don't need to talk."

She's most stubborn of all his kids, the one most like himself. They're both always fine, never need to talk, and they bottle things up until they explode.

"I just needed a good day," she mutters under her breath, and Darry pulls her into a hug.

"Sorry you're feeling bad," he tells her. It's the best thing he could say.

* * *

Emma is regretting her decision to run away. She's regretting a lot of the things she's done in the past few days, like not packing enough peanut-free protein bars for her journey and forgetting her cellphone. But more than all those mishaps, she regrets hitching a ride with the creep in the driver's seat.

He'd seemed nice initially, but he's constantly reaching over and touching her. It's nothing inappropriate, but he's putting his hand on her shoulder a lot, and he occasionally pats her knee. Emma tries to convince herself she's just unused to affection, but her gut tells her to get away from this guy as soon as possible.

Emma wishes Meg was with her on this poorly planned trip. The few times her and Meg have hung out together, Meg's been good at reading people, picking out who was truly nice and who had bad intentions. Emma envies her sister's intuition, especially now when it'd come in handy, because what if he really is just being kind? Then again, what if he's not?

"Well, I gotta stop for gas," the creep says. "You want anything from the gas station?"

Emma shakes her head. "No thanks."

Her stomach betrays her, rumbling loudly, and the creep smirks. "You sure, sweetie?"

"Uh, maybe Skittles?"

"Okay, I'll be right back." He laughs and winks at her. "Don't you go anywhere now."

Emma gulps, relieved he's gone, and hurriedly unbuckles her seatbelt. She waits until he can't see her before escaping his car. The gas station is in the middle of nowhere, hiding spots are not abundant, and she wonders where to run.

"Get whatever you want, Dylan," a man across the parking lot says to a teenage boy.

The boy continues walking to the store like he hasn't heard the man. Emma spots their vehicle, a moving truck with a colorful logo, and makes a mad dash for it, deciding it's her best bet. She goes around to hide behind the front of the truck, trying to use the wheels to hide her feet.

"What the hell?" the man swears, having spotted her.

Startled, she freezes for a moment before begging, "Please don't tell him where I am!"

"Dammit!" comes a shout from back at the creep's car.

The man whose truck she's behind turns to see what's going on, and the creep calls out to him, "Hey, you seen a kid around, a girl 'bout thirteen or fourteen?"

"No, sorry," says the man, still watching Emma from the corner of his eye.

The creep lets loose a string of curses. "Look, she's my niece. If my sister finds out I lost her…"

The nice man darts his eyes to Emma for a split second, catching the frantic shake of her head, and he shrugs. "Guess you could ask inside. Maybe she used the bathroom."

The creep swears again and runs back inside. The man sighs and looks at Emma sympathetically before muttering, "I'm gonna regret this."

"I'm not his niece," Emma whispers. "I swear, I'm not."

"I believe you, kid," he says before honking twice. "Get in before he comes back out, and then keep your head down."

Emma scrambles into the truck as the teenage boy, Dylan, comes out carrying a bag of chips and a coke.

"We filled up?"

"Yeah, we're good," the man answers him. "But we gotta go. Now."

Dylan shrugs and hops in, pausing when he sees Emma. "Uh, Grandpa?"

"Not a word, Dylan, not 'til we've got some distance from this place."


	5. Chapter 5

The man who saved Emma is named Keith. He and his grandson, Dylan, are nice, but they expect an 'explanation for her circumstances'. She understands them wanting to know who she is and what she's doing, but it's all she can do not to burst into tears then and there. Her recent misadventures have been stressful.

"Okay, let's start small," Keith says. "We've told you our names. What's yours?"

"Emma," she answers, channeling her inner Meg in an effort to keep her voice even.

His smile is kinder than than the creep's had been. "Nice to meet you, Emma."

"Are you a runaway?" Dylan asks bluntly.

She shrugs and hunches her shoulders, not sure how to answer that. She is a runaway, strictly speaking, but she doesn't feel like one. Her journey has a purpose, albeit a shaky one, and she doesn't think that's true of most runaways.

Keith reaches around Emma to clip Dylan on the ear, ignoring the glare the boy sends him, and turns his attention back to Emma. "Why'd you hitch a ride with that guy?"

"Didn't feel like walking,"

"No need for the attitude, kid."

 _What attitude?_ she wonders, on the verge of panic. _No, no, stay calm. Meg wouldn't panic_

Emma takes a breath, reassures herself that she's not clever enough to have an attitude, that she's simply trying to be honest, and she retraces the steps in her mind. She was walking until she got out of San Francisco, which took way longer than she thought it would. So, she stuck a thumb out, reasoning her trip would be shorter in a car. That's when the creep pulled up.

Keith dials back the accusatory stare and tries again. "Where're you headed then?"

"Tulsa," she whispers.

"Hey, us too," Dylan chips in.

Keith shoots him a look that might be disapproving before focusing on Emma again. "Why?"

Another shrug.

"Kid," Keith sighs, "I ain't out to get you. I can understand, if you maybe don't wanna go home, but you gotta work with me here. Otherwise, I'm gonna start trying to figure out how to get you back to where you came from, not where you wanna go."

Emma considers this. Even knowing she'll be in huge trouble, she's never wanted to go home more in her life, but she's come this far, and these guys are headed to the same place. Isn't that a sign or something?

"I'm trying to find my uncle."

"He lives in Tulsa?"

"Yeah." She pretty sure he does anyway. For good measure, she's memorized the address he had back in '95. As long as he hasn't moved, she should be able to find him.

"Okay," Keith says calmly. "Well, it's more convenient for us to see you safely there than to drag you back home, wherever that may be."

They fall into silence for a short moment before Dylan asks, "But why hitchhike? Why not just take a bus or something?"

The thought of taking a bus never occurred to her. It would've been the smart thing to do, but no one's ever accused her of having a brain.

Emma blames the story she read too, about how her dad, who used to have a funny name, did all sorts of daring things. He hopped trains and hitchhiked, and it sounded like an adventure. Now she sees it was stupid. For all she knows, that part was made up.

"No money," she says after a moment, and it's true enough, because that's yet another thing she forgot to pack. Being dumb sure makes things hard.

* * *

Meg sets up their landline to forward calls to her cell and leaves her dad a note about where she'll be. She doesn't need to leave the house, but some things are best done in person.

While she drives to Joe's place, she tries to remember everything she can about her oldest sibling, in case she needs it for a good argument. There's a lot of memories to choose from, even if she only knows most of them second hand from Courtney.

Joe's high school girlfriend dumped him senior year when she discovered his cheating via Courtney's interference.

The same girlfriend hooked up with Connor as a revenge rebound, in Joe's room.

Connor beat Joe in the fight they had over said girlfriend, when Joe found out.

In retribution for the pool incident, Courtney keyed Joe's car, slashed his tires, and ripped the steering wheel off. Connor had wanted to set it on fire too, but Courtney shot the idea down, saying there was too many ways that could blow up in their faces. Literally.

There's been a lot of stuff.

It's just as well Joe and Meg never clashed much. Too much of an age gap, she supposes, but he was mean enough all the same. She holds onto that, in case she starts feeling guilty over showing up out of the blue.

"Can I help you?" Joe says when he answers the door.

Meg raises an eyebrow. "Don't recognize me?"

Joe stares at her for a moment. "Megan?"

"Just Meg is fine."

"You look like Izzy," Joe tells her.

It's all she can do not to flinch. "You look like Dad."

And he does, only with blond hair. The eye color is wrong too, but everything else is pure Dad.

"Of course," Meg continues, "Connor looks even more like him."

That makes him scowl. "Connor's welcome to the resemblance. Who'd wanna favor a sad, pathetic failure like Dad anyway?"

Joe's never understood, he isn't allowed to say things like that, not when he's part of the problem.

"You're one to talk. I hear you and your wife are having problems already. It's only been a year, hasn't it? My, that story sounds familiar, reminds me of a sad and pathetic failure we both know."

Meg knows this because Joe's mom, Rachel, has called the house multiple times to keep Mike up to date on how Joe's doing. Mostly, she tries to guilt Mike into mending the bridge with Joe, spouting stuff about her not wanting to see her son making the same mistakes and all. Mike never picks up when he sees Rachel's number on the caller ID, and he never calls back, but he keeps the messages.

Joe looks funny with his face so red. "It's none of your business, and you can get the hell off my porch."

Meg has no problem with that, so long as she gets the info she's after. "Okay, but answer a question for me first."

He rolls his eyes. "What?"

"Have you seen Emma, or heard from her?"

"Who?"

It's Meg's turn to be angry, but she emulates Courtney, keeping it cold. "Oh, no one, just the sister you tried to drown nine years ago."

"It was an accident!" Joe hisses, and there's hurt under the anger this time. He remembers fine. "How many times do I gotta say it? I didn't know she couldn't swim."

"So, you didn't mean to give her the stray kitten treatment, you just make a habit of pushing five-year-olds around. I wonder what your wife would think of that."

"What I would think of what?" asks a feminine voice from behind Meg.

She turns around to see a woman with a huge mutt on a leash. Joe gives her a strained smile.

"What you would think of my estranged sister showing up with no warning, Kelly," he covers smoothly.

"And willing to share some embarrassing stories," Meg adds, shooting a warning glare at her eldest half-brother. "But another time. I only came by to ask Joe something."

"Answer is no, by the way," he says hurriedly. "Haven't seen her."

"Seen who?" Kelly wants to know.

Meg puts on her best vulnerable act, trembling lip and all. "Our youngest sister is missing."

Kelly's expression turns from wary to sympathetic. "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. Is there anything we can do to help?"

"No, ma'am," Meg says, dialing up the manners. "Thank you for offering though."

She hops off the porch, petting the dog in passing, and hears Joe say, "You're back early from your walk."

To which Kelly replies, "Any reason I shouldn't be?" in a tone that does not bode well at all.

Repeated mistakes indeed. Meg doesn't look back.

* * *

Angela isn't altogether surprised to run into Steve Randle on TU's campus. He does work there after all, but she doesn't understand why he's looking so guilty. Grumpy is his default setting, although Anita's been helping with that, but guilty? Something's up.

"How've you been, Angel?" he asks hesitantly.

"Fine, just finished helping a student of mine through the enrollment process."

He wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, I'm glad I don't work in admissions. It's a circus."

She smiles. "Yeah, and if it seems that way to you, imagine what it's like for someone fresh out of high school."

He grins back, but it's gone in a flash. "How's Tim?"

"Dying," she says shortly, wondering if that's why Steve is so glum. "You can some see him, if you want."

"Sure, maybe."

That means no, but it's okay. She understands that Tim is too much a reminder of days long since gone. It might be too much for Tim as well, if he sees what Randle made of himself while Tim was in a cell. Despite all the bad he's done, Angela figures her brother deserves to die in relative peace, without all the what-ifs.

"What's wrong, Randle?" Angel asks, done with the awkward small talk. It doesn't suit him.

He looks down. "I've been asked to cover a freshman comp course in the summer."

One of Billy's old classes. Billy loved teaching in the summer, something Angela knows baffled their kids growing up. They didn't know Billy liked how it kept him busy, because if he was grading papers, he was less likely to fall off the wagon.

"Someone finally pulled you away from your precious computers?" Angela quips.

Steve's posture relaxes, and the guilty look dissipates. "Guess they finally remembered I had a degree in English too. Now I gotta read essays, check for spelling, dock points for grammar. It's my worst nightmare come true."

"Your fault for dual majoring."

"Blame your husband. He dared me."

Angela shakes her head at the old story. "It was more of a goad, and only for the one class. He didn't mean for you to see it through so far."

"Well, I wasn't gonna let him hold it over my head that he stuck with it for longer than I could."

Of course not. And Billy was proud, considering Steve the most successful product of reverse psychology he'd ever seen. Now Steve is taking over one of the classes Billy's left behind. Life really does go on.

* * *

Holly is exhausted and feeling foolish as she rests in the motel. There's no question that it would've been smarter for her and Keith to simply trade in the RV _after_ reaching Tulsa, but she can't stand their home-on-wheels anymore, and she'll be happy to see it go.

That's where they were when they got the call about their son. It'd been her cellphone they'd called, and Keith was right next to her, his hand fighting with hers over how loud the radio should be. She'd shut off the music when the phone rang, listened to the officer on the other end, and started screaming when the words sunk in.

Keith understands. He even feels the same way, and he suggested they send off the RV together. Holly almost agreed, part of her wanting to cling to him. A bigger part of her needs to mourn in private, to have time away from people she needs to be strong for. It's selfish, she knows, but it's only for a while.

 _And really,_ she thinks as she calls Keith, _how much trouble could the boys get into without me?_

"Hey, Grandma." Dylan answers for Keith, meaning they're still on the road.

She tries for a cheery tone, anything to make things seem normal. "Hi, Dylan. Just called to tell you and Keith that I've got someone interested in the RV, and I'll head for Tulsa as soon as I can sell it and buy a car."

"Okay, sounds good," Dylan says, sounding bit off. "Uh, we ran into a snag."

Holly frowns. "What kind of snag?"

"Well, we kinda–" Dylan gets cut off, and she hears a distant, "Hey!"

"Hey, hon!" Keith greets her, having obviously snatched the phone away from Dylan. "Nothing major. We picked up a hitchhiker, is all."

"You what?" she shrieks.

"Now, honey, don't worry. I don't think we're in danger from the young girl we heroically saved from a pervert."

Girl? Pervert? What the hell have they gotten into? Holly forces her confused, frustrated mind to listen.

"…Tulsa, same as us," Keith is saying, lowering his voice. "She seems like a good kid, just scared and quiet. I'm gonna get us some food, maybe get her to open up after we've all eaten something solid."

"I don't think–"

"Love you, bye!" Keith says hurriedly. "Gonna turn my phone off for bit to save the battery until I can find the car charger. Call you later!"

Save the battery? Yeah right. He's merely stalling the earful she's gonna give him later. She should never have let them out of her sight.

* * *

 **Sorry for any typos. My brain feels like rubber, and I think I'm coming down with something. Hope y'all enjoy this one all the same.**


	6. Chapter 6

_In 1969, the other bus passengers are eyeing Soda warily. He's gotten his hands on civilian clothes, but the army duffle he's stashed overhead on the bus's top rack is a dead giveaway to where he's been, and it puts everyone on edge.  
_

 _With a sigh, Soda wanders away from the little crowd. A walk won't solve anything, but it'll get him away from those fearful gazes. No one follows him._

* * *

It's Monday, Keith realizes as he washes his face in the bathroom of the fast food place they've stopped at. It's been twenty-eight days since his son ceased to exist. Twenty-eight days of waiting to feel normal again, knowing he never will, hoping he might anyway. Twenty-eight days, one hour, thirteen minutes, seven seconds, eight, nine, ten... It feels like it's been years already.

Dylan and the kid are a distraction for the moment, but when things slow down, Keith knows the pain is gonna hit him again, hard. He isn't looking forward to that.

The door slams open and shut as Dylan stomps in the restroom, shaking Keith from his thoughts.

"What is it?" he asks his grandson.

"She's an idiot," Dylan says.

Keith frowns. "You mean Emma?"

"No, the other hitchhiker we picked up."

"Calm down," Keith orders him, because the snark isn't helping his headache or the pain in his chest. "What did she say to you?"

Dylan's breathing is fast and hard. "She still has her parents, you know that? I asked her about them, and she said they're alive, and she ran away from home to look for some uncle she's never even met, the ungrateful bitch."

Keith knows Dylan is still grieving, but he can't help being a little disappointed. "Hey, you're old enough to know that not everyone's folks are nice."

"Oh, I asked her about that too. She said her parents don't hit her, so what the hell does she have to be complaining about?"

"Dylan, you can't just ask someone about something like that!" Keith tries not to shout, but he can't believe Dylan would do something so callous. "It's personal, and of course she was gonna deny it."

"Yeah? Well, tell me, does she strike you as someone who's been smacked around?"

"I know she's terrified," Keith says, willing himself to be calm. "When I got on her about having attitude, she went so pale, I thought she'd be sick on the floor mats. I know she's withdrawn and doesn't like looking people in the eye. Had a friend who did all those things, and he got the shit beat out of him almost daily, but he never talked about it much, especially when busybodies asked him about it."

Dylan deflates. "And you think that's Emma's situation?"

"I don't know," Keith admits, "but something made her run. Don't forget that."

His grandson sighs and nods. "Fine, but don't expect us to be friends or anything. I know that's why you left us alone together, so maybe we'd bond or something, and she'd spill her guts."

That would've been a great plan, but it wasn't what Keith had in mind. He decides to be honest and say as much.

"Actually, I just needed a minute alone. You're not the only one hurting."

Dylan looks at his shoes. "I know that."

Keith places a hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm. "Good."

"But she has her parents." Dylan whispers it this time, on the verge of breaking down.

What the hell can Keith say to that?

* * *

Courtney watches Connor as he all but throws a fit outside her apartment. He's clearly agitated as he leans against the railing and stares into the crumbling courtyard, like there's anything good to see on the ground bellow. It's a silent tantrum, consisting mostly of him glancing back at her with a wounded expression, but she knows him well enough to hear all he doesn't say.

His fingers fumble around his pockets for a cigarette. Courtney hates when he smokes, reminds her too much of their mother. Cheryl was smoke incarnate, from the way she moved, to the way she spoke, to the way being in proximity to her could choke the life out of a person, making them forget they ever knew how to breathe.

"Don't you dare," Courtney says calmly.

That's her thing, being calm. How was it Meg once described her? Oh, yeah. She called Courtney a lizard in leather, and the brat has never said anything more accurate in her life.

Connor throws the cigarette on the ground, but it's unlit, and she lets it slide, not that it stops him from griping. "We're not indoors, Court."

"I don't care."

"You usually don't mind if I'm outside."

She doesn't roll her eyes at the petulant tone, but it's a close thing. "I do today."

"That Kyle guy been around lately?" Connor asks, changing the subject.

Courtney's stomach does an unpleasant flip-flop. "Not really. Proposed to his girlfriend, so unless the engagement gets called off, he won't be coming back."

"That make you sad?"

"No reason it should. He's not the only friend with benefits I keep on speed dial."

Connor snorts. "Yeah? How many of them have you called since you started being that rich boy's side chick?"

'Side chick' implies she helps Kyle cheat. She doesn't. She makes herself available when he and Tammy are on the outs, which is every other week. There's a difference, but she doesn't correct her brother. She feels lousy enough without having to split hairs on the ethics of banging someone who's always running back to his ex.

"What's got you so interested in my sex life?" Courtney asks. "Thought it grossed you out. Or are you just trying to hurt me?"

He looks away. "No."

His lying skills are pitiful. He tries to light another smoke, and she hits it out of his hand.

"I said no."

"Or what?" he jeers. "What'll you do, fire me? Oh, wait, you already did. Guess you'll have to pick something else."

Courtney shakes her head. "Connor, you graduated with a degree in journalism."

"So?"

"So, when's the last time you did anything related to your field?"

Connor thinks for a moment. "When I wrote that bit for that travel magazine."

She nods. "Wanna know how long ago that was?"

"Last year?" he guesses.

"Try five."

"Bullshit."

Courtney sighs. "It was five years ago, and you didn't even travel to the city they wanted you to write about."

"Because they wanted a piece about San Francisco!" Connor groans. "We grew up there. I know all the good places to go, so why would I waste time actually going back?"

"That's not the point."

"Then what is, oh, wise one?"

"The point is, you can't spend your entire life tending bar for me. We're thirty-one, Connor, and it's time to grow the fuck up."

He laughs, backs up, lights a cigarette quicker than before, and blows smoke in her face. "And you get to decide that, huh? You, Ms. Courtney Curtis, who always knows what's best for everyone?"

"Put it out," she commands, gesturing to the smoke.

"No, but you're right. I think I will grow up, stop following you around, quit taking your orders. 'Cause, you know what, Court? You forget how you only got investors for your club by showing Dad's coworkers all your slutty outfits."

Connor's claims bounce off and do zero damage. Her outfits were not slutty when she pitched her business idea. Skirts were a little short, maybe, but not slutty.

"Put it out," she repeats, inching closer to him, but he keeps stepping back.

"Did you ever sleep with those old guys?" he asks. "I mean, you get around more than our mother ever did, so I can only imagine you double dipped with Cheryl's leftovers. They all remembered her fondly, didn't they?"

He knows she didn't, although it still stings, but she refuses to lose her temper. That's what he wants, so he can prove to her that she's not a grown up yet either.

He doesn't get it. She knows she's not, which is why she's trying to change, and maybe it was a bad idea to force him into it too, but they've always grown at the same pace, or near to it. She doesn't want to do it alone. Why she can't ever just say so?

She's closer now, gets another face full of smoke. "Put it out."

"What is it Kyle does for you anyway?" Connor presses on, hitting closer to home. "Does he treat you rougher than that nice girl of his, or is he gentle, make you feel like a pretty princess?"

Courtney slaps him before she can stop herself, his cigarette knocked loose from his mouth. There's playing dirty, and there's being cruel. Calling her pretty falls into the second category, and he knows why. Connor being cruel with her is new.

"I told you to put it out," she says, as cool and collected as before.

He turns his back to her, hands back on the railing. "Look at you, pulling out Mom's old tricks. She slapped harder, though, so you gotta work on that."

"Wasn't trying to hurt you," she replies steadily. "I just wanted you to stop."

Connor scowls. "You're a damn snake, Court. Doesn't anything get you out of glacier-mode?"

Glacier-mode. That's what Izzy called Courtney's bouts of emotional detachment, and it's long-since become her core personality. It's a fitting term.

Nothing breaks Courtney's icy exterior. Her nightmares wake her up, but she doesn't scream. Her relationships burn her, but she doesn't cry. Her brother brings up childhood trauma, and she only gives a rough rebuke on his chosen vice.

Last night was different. Last night, she cried for the first time in ages. It's morning now. Morning, and she still doesn't know if it was a happy cry, a sad one, or a terrified sob session.

Too bad Connor would never believe she shed a tear. No one would, and she likes it that way. But if someone knew what was running through her mind, she could talk to them, get an outside perspective.

"Got a call from Meg yesterday," Courtney says, picking a different topic, giving her and Connor time to cool off.

His shoulders tense. Ever since Meg's suicide attempt, he's felt guilty about being so awful to the kid after Izzy died, because it wasn't her fault, and neither was how much she looked like her mother. Before, he and Meg got along well, close in a way that was untainted by the shared suffering tied into his bond with Courtney.

"What'd she say?"

"Emma's missing. Been gone since Saturday at least, but they kinda lost track of her around Thursday evening, so she might've been gone longer."

Connor chuckles darkly. "Dad never learns, does he? Just keeps burying his head in the sand when things get hard."

"Told Meg we'd keep an eye out, if Emma came to see us," Courtney continues. "I doubt she will, though. We never did click with her, aside from you rocking her to sleep a couple of times."

Connor's good with babies, has been since he was eleven, when Meg came along. Courtney doesn't get it. Feminist indignation aside, she would've thought she'd have had more maternal instinct than her twin, but she doesn't, and it isn't fair.

Then came Emma. She was a year old when Lori showed up and dropped the bomb that this sniveling lump was their Dad's kid. Lori was a mess, Dad was a mess, and while they were being messes together, Connor settled a fussy Emma like he was born knowing how.

"You'll tell me if there's news?" Connor asks, pushing off the rail.

"Sure. Where're you headed?"

He shrugs. "No idea. Gotta find a job, preferably one with a better boss."

Courtney watches him go and doesn't try to stop him. He has a right to be upset.

* * *

"I don't know who's the bigger idiot," Meg gripes as she drags Mike into the house, "you for getting drunk last night, or me for believing you were actually going to talk to Emma's school on a fucking Sunday."

He grimaces, not bothering to remind her that Principal Davis holds meetings on weekends for busy parents. She's got every reason to be furious.

Meg purses her lips, unsatisfied with his silence. "Nothing to say? Just went out and got drunk while your kid's missing, and you've got nothing to say."

"They forgot about her," Mike says dully, opening up a bit. "She missed school for days, and no one noticed. She didn't have anyone there. Nobody."

"How do they lose track of a kid?" Meg is incredulous.

That's hypocritical of her, of him too, because he'd demanded to know the same of Davis. From Meg's face, she's realizing the hypocrisy herself, so Mike doesn't remark on it.

"Don't know. Davis made excuses, but I didn't pay much attention. Had to be escorted off school grounds."

"And then you found the nearest bar, picked a fight, and called me from a holding cell once you were sober enough," Meg finishes. "Lovely. Thanks for catching me up. In the meantime, I did your job and called around about Emma."

Mike rubs his face. "And?"

"What, no 'thank you'?" Meg snaps.

"That what you want?" he asks. "You want credit for being a little less of an asshole than me?"

Meg stares him down for a moment before getting on with it. "No one's seen her, which is what we expected, but at least we know for sure now."

He nods, feeling Meg watch him. He knows he looks awful, and he feels awful too, enough that he can't even be mad at the pitying expression she gives him. She looks so much like Izzy when she does that. She shakes her head, anger covering any softness in her features.

"Take a shower and go to sleep," she orders him. "We're going out driving later."

"Why, in case we see her walking down the street somewhere?"

"Exactly," she says. "That's what you do when you're a parent, or so I imagine. Maybe you should ask one sometime, just to be sure."

Ah, his flinty girl is back. It's not good for her to be this way, but at least she doesn't look like a ghost anymore.

 **So, not as many perspectives this time. I think that's why this chapter feels short to me, but anything more I tried to tack on felt like an afterthought, and I knew this was the place to end it. I hope y'all enjoyed it!**


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